Sadie gasped and grabbed Cokie’s arm.
“’Scuse me?” said Cokie.
Mr. Rosenblatt nodded. “I’ll go through the list and then I’ll answer any questions you have. As I said, the house on Conti and the furniture will become the joint property of Mr. Coquard and Miss Vibert. There is no mortgage. The house and property known as Shady Grove will become the sole property of Miss Moraine. This property is also debt free. The automobile, affectionately known as Mariah, as well as all firearms, will become the sole property of Miss Moraine. All of Willie’s jewelry and personal effects will become the joint property of Miss Moraine and Miss Vibert. All of the nieces and information men currently in Willie’s employ will receive one hundred dollars for each year of service. After all outstanding debts are paid, the remaining cash will be split evenly, five ways, between the three of you and the two surviving musketeers, Dr. Sully and myself.”
The room was silent. Sadie sat bolt upright, her mouth hanging agape. Cokie began to cry.
“Mr. Coquard,” began the attorney.
“Cokie,” he corrected.
“Cokie, you worked with Willie for over twenty years. She valued your friendship and loyalty greatly. This is what she wanted,” explained Mr. Rosenblatt.
Cokie spoke softly through his tears. “But none of it’s no good. Don’t you see? Nothing’s gonna make up for Willie bein’ gone.”
Mr. Rosenblatt’s eyes pooled. “I agree. Nothing will ever make up for Willie being gone.”
He explained the next steps and the process. He made suggestions about budgets and financial-planning services. He insisted we tell absolutely no one of Willie’s bequests, as she worried we would become targets for swindlers and moochers.
“Now, that’s smart,” said Cokie. “Josie girl here, she got a heart like an artichoke. A leaf for everyone. So don’t you tell no one, Jo. You got plans, anyway.” Cokie nodded and smiled at the attorney. “Josie goin’ to college.”
Everyone looked at me, wanting me to explain that I’d been accepted to Smith and was blowing out of New Orleans. But I wasn’t.
Willie. College. Mother. Vultures. A loud fan whirred inside my head on high. At some point, I looked up and realized everyone in the room was standing.
“Is there something else, Miss Moraine?” The attorney, Cokie, and Sadie all stared.
“Yes,” I said, still dazed. “Willie wanted me to change my name.”
FIFTY-NINE
The sun beat down from twelve o’clock in the sky. I stretched my legs and rubbed the back of my neck.
“That’s quite a car you’ve got there,” said a man smoking a cigarette on the sidewalk.
“Thank you.” The man circled the car, admiring it. I thought of Cokie and how he cried when I insisted on giving him Mariah.
“It must ride like a dream. You drive it a lot?” asked the man.
I shook my head. “It’s my boyfriend’s. He drives it all the time.”
Jesse emerged from the post office, smiling.
“And let me guess,” said the smoking man to Jesse. “You’re the boyfriend.”
“It’s a tough job, but someone had to take her, right?” Jesse looked at me and grinned.
“You two travelin’ far?” asked the man.
“Yes, sir. Takin’ my girl on a trip.”
The man’s wife came out of the post office. He wished us safe travels.
“Well?” I asked.
Jesse slung his arm around me and whispered in my ear. “One Lord Elgin watch on its way to Mrs. Marion Hearne in Memphis. Postmark Alabama.”
“Thank you.” I hugged him.
He slapped his hands together. “All right, give me Cokie’s map. I promised him I’d follow Cornbread’s route up through Georgia.”
Jesse spread the map out on the hood of the car. His car. The car he built himself from nothing but a scrap heap. Somehow he’d managed to put the pieces together, polish them up, and make them into something beautiful, completely unrecognizable from its former self.
I looked at the carton in the backseat. Charlie’s Valentine box with the Siamese acorns, the page from his typewriter, a postcard from Cuba, and three pictures in sterling frames. The one of Willie as a child that I found at Shady Grove, one of Jesse and his car, and one of Cokie and Sadie in front of their house on Conti. The sadness started to seep in again. We got back in the car.
“What is it?” asked Jesse.
I shrugged. “I desperately wanted to get away from it, but somehow I’m worried that it will all evaporate, that I’ll lose Cokie, the bookshop, you.”
“It’s a start, Jo. A safe one.”
I nodded, wanting to stick to the plan.
“The hardest part is just gettin’ out. Miss Paulsen got you an interview at Smith. You have a safe place to stay in Northampton with her friend—a place where your mother and Cincinnati will never find you. Once you’re there, you’ll turn it into something quick. You’ll get into Smith, I know it. Nothin’s gonna change in New Orleans. If you ever go back, you’ll find the same hustle and blow. It’ll be just as you left it. And you’re not losin’ me.”
He edged over close to me. I looked up at him.
“I’m gonna finish school and then you know what? I’m comin’ for you, Josie Coquard.” Jesse smiled. “Josie Mae West of the Motor City Moraine Coquard. You still owe me a window. Put that in the note to your friend.”
I had been writing out a postcard to Charlotte from Alabama. At Jesse’s insistence, I had sent her a twelve-page single-spaced letter. I spilled my entire history, every filthy last bit of it, including that my namesake was a madam and that Miss Paulsen had somehow pulled strings for an interview at Smith. I could barely fit all the pages in the envelope and had to tape it shut. Additional postage required, the postal clerk had said.
And then I waited, certain that no response would indeed be the response. But then a letter arrived, a single sheet of pink paper with a brief reply.
“There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the proportion.”
—Sir Francis Bacon
Can’t wait to see you!
Your trusted friend, Charlotte
And so it was decided.
Josie’s goin’ to Northampton, so don’t you jive on me.
I took a swig out of Cokie’s thermos, and we pulled back onto the road.
Acknowledgments
Out of the Easy was a team effort. This book would not have been possible without the team captains—my agent Ken Wright and my editor Tamra Tuller. Ken encouraged me to pursue this story and Tamra guided every step of my writing. Their patience, wisdom, and expertise transformed this novel. I am grateful for such wonderful mentors and friends.
I am eternally indebted to author Christine Wiltz. Her book The Last Madam: A Life in the New Orleans Underworld inspired not only this story, but also my desire to be a writer. Earl and Lorraine Scramuzza introduced me to a historical underbelly of the French Quarter I never would have uncovered on my own. Sean Powell welcomed me into the house on Conti that was formerly the brothel of Norma Wallace and the studio of E. J. Bellocq. New Orleans historian John Magill shared his incredible knowledge and flagged my errors.